


The Chance You Take

by superfluouskeys



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2018-12-30 15:23:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12111636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superfluouskeys/pseuds/superfluouskeys
Summary: There's only one thing keeping Hawke in Kirkwall.  [Canon-divergent around the beginning of Act 3.  Vaguely Carol-inspired.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Literal garbage. Already shaping up to be pretty long. I watched Carol on repeat for like a week and a half and then wrote this so there are definitely some silly references. Play a drinking game and see if you can spot them all!

"Point somewhere!  Anywhere!"

Hawke laughed, tossed her hair and allowed it to obscure her eyes, to hide how touched she was by the thought.  Going soft, that was what, but these had been difficult years.  The thought of...not only of something new, but of someone offering it to her?  It was definitely too good to be true.

"Better yet," Isabela came around behind her and covered her eyes.  "I'll blindfold you, spin a globe, and the destination will be a surprise."

Hawke caught her hands, thin laughter still upon her lips.  "I wish," she said.  Deflected, really.

Isabela freed one of her hands to ruffle Hawke's hair.  "Why wish?" she pressed.

"I've got..." Hawke gestured vaguely, sighed.

"What?" Isabela drew her face into a garish frown.  " _Responsibilities?"_

Hawke averted her eyes again.  "Well," she said.

"So drag her with us for all I care, if she'll go," Isabela sighed, as though it were nothing, and then suddenly let out a loud bark of laughter.  "Can you imagine, actually?"

"I can't, no," Hawke agreed.

There was a twinkle of mischief in Isabela's eye as she returned to her seat next to Hawke, and propped her boots up on the table.  "Five silver she's a better sailor than you."

Hawke managed a genuine chuckle at that.  "No argument there."

* * *

"Serah Hawke."  Surprise.  Sometimes there was such lightness in her voice.  "I wasn't expecting you."

Hawke often wondered what she'd been like ten years ago, or twenty.  She wondered whether Meredith wondered that about her, too.  Perhaps it was easier not to think of it.  Twenty years ago, Meredith had likely already held a high rank among the templars, and Hawke had been but one more child hiding from them.

Disastrous though it might be for her health, Hawke didn't see how she could have avoided being drawn to a woman like the Knight-Commander.  Meredith Stannard was like...a very rocky cliffside.  Elegant in her roughness, deadly in her design, but no matter how the waves might batter against her, no matter how the storms might rage above her, she would never yield to them.

And she was really quite pleasant when no one was calling her a madwoman.

"I..." Hawke managed, but immediately faltered.  Now that the door had closed behind her, the absurdity of her presence hit her in full force.  She hadn't even the feeblest excuse to speak to the Knight-Commander at the moment; indeed, was supposed to be investigating something for Orsino.  And what was she thinking she would come here to say?  _Run away with me?_

So she stood with her back to the door, words caught in her throat, and Meredith stood not two paces from her, stalwart as stone before her desk, waiting in silence.

"I..." she tried again.  "Are you busy?" she finished lamely.

Meredith quirked one eyebrow.  "Evidently not," she countered smoothly.

"Right.  Sorry.  I just..." Hawke ran a hand through her hair, fixed her eyes on the few little knick-knacks Meredith had on her desk.  "I was thinking I might...go away, for awhile."

"Where?  When?"  She couldn't see Meredith's reaction in her periphery, but she doubted it would matter.  Meredith's face seldom gave anything away.  Her voice, however, hardly exemplified the direct, professional tone she usually employed.  She cared, then, at least a little.  Hawke hadn't been entirely mad to come here.

"Oh, you know," Hawke raised her eyes to the ceiling, folded her hands behind her back.  "Somewhere else.  Somewhere new."  She gathered her courage, lowered her gaze from the ceiling to Meredith, who as far as she could tell had barely moved in the course of their conversation.  "I confess, I thought you'd be happier to see me go, Knight-Commander," she said, as lightly as she could manage.

Meredith did not respond.  The only sign that she had heard at all was a slight furrowing of her brow, a glittering in her eyes that said she was thinking carefully.

Hawke grew restless under her steadfast gaze, and began to pace the room.  "I remember hearing you were born in Kirkwall," she said, to fill the silence.

"Yes," said Meredith, too quietly.

"Have you ever been anywhere else?"

More silence.  Heavier, thicker somehow, and Hawke scanned the books on the far wall without really seeing them.

"No," said Meredith at last.  Hawke heard her inhale as though to continue, then, just for an instant, she heard Meredith hesitate.  "I...joined the templar order at a very young age," she said.  "And I worked very hard.  There was never time."

Hawke stopped cold, looked up suddenly.  "Did you ever want to?"

Meredith glanced away and back, only for an instant, the only sign that Hawke had shaken her.  "I suppose the thought crossed my mind, from time to time," she said.  "Do we not all think of what it might be like to cast off our responsibilities and disappear for a time?"

Hawke took a step forward.  "Is that what you think I'm doing?"

Meredith considered her coolly.  "There will be difficult days ahead; there can be no doubt about that.  The conflict on the rise in Kirkwall is coming to a head, and those who might sway its outcome have thus far refused to take a stance.  Yourself included," Meredith inclined her head pointedly.  "I think your life as an apostate has taught you to run and hide when such conflicts arise, and my life as a templar has taught me to stay and endure them."  She let out a small huff of something like amusement then, and affixed her eyes to some imagined point on the far wall.  "I'm not certain whether I can fault you for that."

Hawke felt a sad kind of smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she dared a further approach.  "Oh, I'm sure you could," she said.

Meredith returned her gaze to Hawke, not quite smiling, but not far off, either.  She had to look down as Hawke closed the distance between them, and the feeling was always unnerving.  Hawke was tall, used to towering over nearly everyone since she'd been a gawky teenager, but Meredith was taller, and the templar armour rendered her at least twice as broad. 

"Why did you come here, Serah Hawke?" she asked, low and quiet, but with a steely edge to the sound that left no room for deflection.

Hawke's toes landed just shy of Meredith's heavy boots, her hands just shy of Meredith's waist, and she bowed her head under the intensity of Meredith's gaze.  "To say goodbye," she said.  "To ask you to come with me."

Meredith caught Hawke's hands and, to her immense surprise, settled them upon the chainmail that covered her waist.  "Haven't you enough companions who would follow you into the Void, itself?"

Hawke looked up and leaned in, contemplated the unfamiliar texture of heavy chainmail against her palms.  "What can I say?" she wondered, with a tired attempt at a smirk.  "I'm never satisfied."

"I don't doubt that," said Meredith, with a darker shade to her voice that sent shivers up Hawke's spine.  Meredith's fingers grasped lightly at the material of Hawke's sleeves, and Hawke could feel the gauntlets that covered Meredith's knuckles just barely brushing against her arms through the fabric.

Hawke swallowed hard, struggled not to let her gaze linger upon Meredith's lips, just slightly parted, little more than a breath away.  "I never thought you'd say yes," she said, as airily as she could manage.  "But on the off-chance that you go completely mad and change your mind, Captain Isabela has extended you an invitation."

Meredith scoffed, but not without unexpectedly good humour.  "An infamous apostate walks into the office of Kirkwall's Knight-Commander and asks her to board a pirate's vessel," she said, shaking her head, and Hawke could have sworn Meredith was struggling not to eye her lips now.  "You never fail to surprise, serah."

"Well," Hawke breathed, gathered her resolve, and pulled away, let her fingertips linger upon the chainmail at Meredith's sturdy waist just an instant longer, "when you put it that way, it does sound rather batty, doesn't it?"

Meredith's hands hung aloft for a moment, still reaching, but she quickly schooled her expression back into stony neutrality and straightened her posture.  As far as anyone else was concerned she might never have moved throughout the entirety of their interaction.  Steady as the stones of her city of chains.

"So, tell me, Knight-Commander," said Hawke as she took up pacing the room again, "if you could go anywhere, where would you go?"

Meredith considered her for a moment.  "Fereldan, perhaps, now that the Blight has ended," she said.  "I have always wished to visit the Temple of Sacred Ashes in the Frostbacks, or the ruins along the Storm Coast.  Somewhere...green, where it rains.  Or even snows."

Old memories gone bittersweet with time came surging into the forefront of Hawke's mind: Carver pelting Bethany with snowballs, then sulking when she wouldn't play with him anymore, Father bringing home a little Satinalia tree for them to decorate, Mother scrounging together presents for them in the years when they had less than nothing, Father always stealing a bit of her red ribbon and tying it around Mother's wrist, and the way Mother always left it there for days or weeks afterward.

"It hasn't snowed once since I've been in Kirkwall," she said.  "Have you ever seen it?"

"Snow?"  Meredith shook her head.

Another image, not a memory at all, but just as bright, presented itself to her: Meredith with hair uncovered, snowflakes clinging to flaxen curls, and a cozy scarf about her neck instead of heavy armour.  Hawke's heart stuttered unhelpfully.  "That's that, then," she said with a decisive nod.  "We'll go somewhere with snow."

Meredith didn't smile, but her eyes softened somehow.  "I wish you well," she said, and sounded a bit surprised to be saying so.

Hawke, seized by something hot and tender and reckless, surged forward, and half expected Meredith to strike her down as a matter of reflex.  She took Meredith's hands in hers, squeezed them tightly despite the way the gauntlets dug into her palms, as she struggled for something to say, anything at all, that was more than a stupid joke or a deflection or a simple goodbye.  She came up woefully short.

And Meredith stood unmoving, allowed Hawke's egregious insubordination, and studied her, with a face almost, but not quite, impassive.

* * *

This morning, Meredith had come across First Enchanter Orsino built up on a platform in the market, preaching rebellion to anyone who would listen even as another of his charges had been unleashed upon the city not a week prior.  They'd had the same exhausting argument, and Elthina had intervened to do absolutely nothing.  It was an uncharitable thought, to be certain, and possibly downright blasphemous, but Meredith often felt she might have preferred open resistance from Her Grace.  She was accustomed to beating herself against stone walls.  Beating herself against things that only bent and twisted and softened was profoundly frustrating.

In the afternoon, she'd tasked her second-in-command with following an assortment of missing mages and cagey templars, who she had reason to believe were endeavouring to hatch some sort of plot to overthrow her.  (Though to what end, she knew not—the only person who had stepped forward to take over for Dumat was an idiot of the most obnoxious degree.)

The Knight-Captain had put a stop to whatever they were playing at out on the Wounded Coast; however, there had been something off about his report that bore looking into. Meredith had been called paranoid many times in her life, but she put considerable faith in her instincts.  She had an uncommonly good sense for a missed detail, an odd turn of phrase—all the subtlest hallmarks of a lie. 

Knight-Captain Cullen wasn't her favourite person, but he was easily among the most capable, and, more importantly, most malleable of her men.  She remembered for the first time in years the twist in her gut when she'd first been handed the mantle of Knight-Captain herself, how she'd felt to learn that in the eyes of the Order, a recruit who would not question orders was better than one with a mind of his own.  The knowledge used to haunt her.  Perhaps it still did, in a distant fashion.

Keeping Knight-Captain Cullen as her second would be easiest, though whether he possessed the wherewithal to succeed her in due time remained to be seen.  He was efficient and well-trained, but absolutely nothing like Meredith had been in his position.  Perhaps he was not rock-solid in his convictions, but he was weak-willed enough not to put voice to his questions, and lacked charisma as a result of his uncertainty.  She feared no conflict of fealty among her men when it came to him.

To round off a truly dreadful day, in the early evening, just when Meredith had been planning to take a proper meal, there came word from a secluded corner of Hightown that a family of six were killed by the magically gifted child they'd been harbouring.  She'd become ill at that, and made no further attempt to eat.

Meredith had come to care deeply for this city early on in her career with the Order, longed with every fibre of her being to prevent the kind of atrocity she had borne witness to in her youth, yet there was only so much of a fruitless battle one could endure.  She was willing to admit, in the privacy of her own mind, that she was coming to the end of her considerable rope.

The absence of the Champion would be a wash, in the end.  It would complicate some matters, while simplifying others.  On the one hand, she was no longer forced to permit a powerful and well-liked apostate to roam the streets freely in open defiance of the law.  On the other, she no longer had the benefit of a highly-regarded and naturally influential voice who, against all odds, did not loathe her entirely.

Not that Meredith minded loathing very much.  She had not secured her current position by shying away from what must be done.  The responsibility she bore was a heavy one, and she gladly shouldered its cost.  People liked order and safety, but they disliked the sword that assured it.  The vast majority of her conversations since she had claimed the position had been arguments, but there had been a time when they had been productive ones.  She had enacted real change once, held real influence, and a much easier charm, reminiscent of the Champion's, in a way.

Now the days stretched before her, grey and increasingly dreary, as she realized with a sinking sensation that she had only more of the same to look forward to, minus an entirely unexpected source of agreeable company.  Yet, what else was there to do?  It was her duty to keep order, her calling to preside over Kirkwall's mages, and quite simply her occupation to respond to whatever threat presented itself. 

Another apostate child, one of a hundred, murdered her family, could well have taken down half of Hightown if not for the efficiency of Meredith's men, and what would the First Enchanter have her do tomorrow?  Nothing?  Be lenient?  Show mercy, in the vain hope that a gentler hand in the face of an unspeakable injustice would somehow engender less wrongdoing?

Meredith returned to her office, stomach still churning and nerves all on edge, starting to hear the strange echoes and nonsensical trails of thought that meant she'd gone too long without a dose of lyrium— _one day someone is going to kill you, someone is going to stab you in the back and you with all your might will never see it coming, the rite of annulment is in your hands just kill them all and start over_ —and wondering, not for the first time, what sort of a monster lay buried within her, that such thoughts even had a place to find purchase.

On her desk she spotted a foreign object, like a glass orb plucked from the staff of a mage, tied with a red ribbon.  She eyed it suspiciously— _poison, trap, explosive_ —picked it up to examine it, and felt her heart stutter when the movement roused little flecks of glitterdust inside the orb.

Though she knew she was alone, she glanced over her shoulder before she gave the little orb a proper shake.

Someone had left her a snowglobe.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeeep, so glad there are people who are interested in this nonsense! This fic is pure self-indulgent trash just to warn you hahaha.

"Hang on," Isabela called.  "One more coming aboard, I think."

Against all reason, Hawke's heart leapt.  She hurried across the ship to where Isabela leaned against the railing and followed her line of sight.

The figure approaching the docks wore a long skirt and a hood over her flaxen hair, and she cradled her satchel against her chest with both arms.  Even in such modest attire and shaded by the faint light of the grey morning, Knight-Commander Meredith was unmistakable.

"Ho-ly _shit!"_ Isabela shot Hawke a delighted grin, and slugged her in the arm.

Meredith caught sight of Hawke and Isabela watching her, nodded her acknowledgement, and approached the ramp almost hesitantly.  Isabela practically launched herself across the ship and down onto the docks to greet her, and Hawke followed close behind.

Isabela affected her Captain's persona for the official greeting, but it barely concealed her deep amusement at what seemed to be unfolding before her.  Meredith asserted her intentions quietly, then raised her eyes to where Hawke lingered above the ramp and offered her an expression that was not quite a smile, but burned into her memory all the same.

"You came," Hawke breathed when she had boarded.  "What about...you know, everything?"

"The Knight-Captain is quite capable of covering my position for a time, and his successor of covering his," she said simply.  "He will send word if there is a matter which requires my direct intervention.  A few months away are not unprecedented."

"Right, sure, but..."  Hawke didn't know what she meant to say--at least, not without sounding insulting.  Meredith's actual duties aside, she had a long-standing reputation for digging her heels into the matters under her jurisdiction, and others besides.

Meredith considered her through narrowed eyes, a habit of concentration that Hawke was sure most read as a means of intimidation.  "It...occurred to me," she said, seeming to glean Hawke's meaning, "that perhaps removing myself from the situation might do it more good than I should care to admit.  Tensions are running high.  My...impatience has done little to allay them."

Hawke almost laughed.  "If Anders could hear you now," she could not resist but to remark.

Meredith shouldered her bag and inclined her head thoughtfully.  "If more saw fit to speak to me without such presumption, I imagine I would surprise a great many of them."

* * *

For the first couple of weeks, they barely even spoke to one another.  For all Isabela's vagrancy on land, she ran an incredibly tight ship, and the long days at sea exhausted even the most seasoned of her crew.  Hawke was as dreadful a sailor as she'd been crammed into the refugee boat a few years back, and after a week or two she gave up on remembering what it was like not to feel nauseated.  Isabela never condescended to her, though, and laid into anyone who complained about her clumsiness. 

Eventually, a deep-seated inner desire not to disappoint the people who cared for her drove her to work harder still, and she showed some meager signs of improvement.   She was stuck with fourth watch, however, which meant a lot of sitting around late into the night watching for rocks, or a particularly wave-y wave, and trying not to fall asleep or die of boredom.

Meredith stopped covering her hair after a fortnight, and started tying it back from her face a week or so after that.  She didn't tan like Hawke and Isabela did, but neither did she burn.  When she took to wearing trousers and rolling up her sleeves to reveal the muscles one could previously only have assumed lay beneath her bulky armour, she was really quite a sight to behold, and Hawke did not do a very good job of hiding her admiration.

As a templar, Meredith had been sharp-eyed and cocksure, the sort of person who commanded a healthy rush of trepidation wherever she walked, but also the sort of person who could assess and take charge of a situation before half the city had so much as lifted their heads. 

As a sailor, her presence was far quieter, or perhaps a stoic and reserved person had always been hiding under the terrifying persona she presented to her enemies.  It had occurred to Hawke that Meredith might not take well to being someone's subordinate again, but she regarded Isabela with the utmost respect.  She learned fast, worked tirelessly, and only showed signs of that infamous temper when anyone besides Isabela tried to give her anything that sounded remotely like an order.

It was getting cold by the time they made it to their first port.  Meredith appeared sometime before sunrise and joined Hawke at her post to watch the land grow nearer beneath gathering stormclouds.

"Can't wait to be on solid ground again," said Hawke, by way of greeting.

"One wonders why you would jump at the chance to go sailing if you dislike it so much," said Meredith, not unpleasantly. 

Hawke realized, rather suddenly, that she hadn't heard Meredith say so many words in a row since they'd departed.  "What can I say?" she shrugged.  "It was a vessel leaving Kirkwall."  She moved to join Meredith at the railing.  "Anyway, I don't much like sailing, but I do like Isabela.  I think I should dislike it far more if I were to decline the invitation and never see her again."

"I see," said Meredith evenly.

"Not like that," Hawke clarified hastily, though she wasn't certain why she should be on the defensive.  "Well, I mean.  Kind of like that.  But not anymore."

Meredith rewarded her bizarre show of nerves with a sidelong glance and a cocked eyebrow.

"Seafaring agrees with you, it seems," said Hawke, averting her eyes.

Meredith nodded slowly.  "I have spent nearly all of my life devoted to the Chantry and the Order," she said.  "It is good to be faced with a new pursuit."

"I admit I'm surprised you take orders so well," Hawke dared to tease.

Meredith rewarded her with a quiet chuckle, a low, silky sound that sent chills coursing through her, wholly unrelated to the cool morning air.  "I spent many years taking orders before I gave them," she said.  "I am surprised by your friend's suitability to the burden of leadership.  In a way, it is something of a relief."

Hawke managed something like a laugh, though in truth, she was still reeling in response to Meredith's.  "I confess I'm a bit surprised, myself," she said.  "But, you know, some people just aren't themselves without a calling of some sort.  I think living without a ship affected Isabela much more than she let on."

Meredith nodded thoughtfully.  "And what is your calling, Serah Hawke?"

The question caught her off guard.  That she had no answer should have come as no surprise to her, and yet somehow it unsettled her.  "Oh," she shrugged, "I don't know.  I've always gotten along fine anywhere we went."

"We?"

"Oh, I..."  Hawke's frown deepened.  "I guess I meant my family."

Meredith was silent for a moment.  "I...never got the chance to express my condolences for the loss of your mother," she began, almost haltingly.  "I confess I tried to write you, but words seemed...insufficient.  It is a travesty, that such an injustice could have come to pass."  Her voice hardened then, far more the Meredith Hawke had known first.  "Were the matter brought to me, I'd have looked into it.  But I sense that Ser Thrask no longer trusts in my judgement."

Hawke felt an old prickle in her throat and dug her fingernails into her thigh in an attempt to quell the onslaught of emotion.  "No one thought it worth looking into," she said, not without a touch of bitterness.  "That's why he came to me."

A small flicker of movement caught Hawke's eye.  She saw in her periphery a twitch of Meredith's hand upon the railing.  She held her breath, felt her own grip tighten, sure the slightest twitch would shatter a moment that felt so singular.  At last, Meredith moved, and placed her hand atop Hawke's.

Hawke closed her eyes, savoured the feeling.  "Where's your family?"

Meredith was quiet for a long time.  Hawke opened her eyes eventually, regretting that she'd asked at all, but as usual, Meredith's expression gave away nothing.  "Long dead," she said at last, quiet as the breeze.

"I'm sorry," said Hawke.  She shifted her hand to lace her fingers with Meredith's, dared to lean in just a little, to feel the warmth of Meredith's shoulder against hers.

"Don't be," said Meredith, somewhat severely.  "Tragedy gave me my purpose.  Would that I could prevent such an atrocity from ever befalling another."

"What happened, if I may ask?" Hawke dared.  "With your family, I mean."

Meredith was silent for some time.  The ship was beginning to come to life for the morning, everyone excited by the various pleasures that awaited them on the approaching shore.  Somewhere below, they could hear Isabela's sharp laughter.

"Another time, perhaps," said Meredith at last.  She squeezed Hawke's hand, almost gently, and then stood to see to her own duties for the morning.

* * *

The Storm Coast looked about like it sounded--all steep, rocky cliffs and menacing caves and crumbling remnants of lives long left behind.  They were docking in what essentially amounted to a glorified fishing village not far from Highever, with a certain contingency of businessmen who understood the market for products that lay outside the confines of the law.

There'd be no room for the crew in the town proper, though, Isabela warned, and so it was sleep on the ship or camp outside town and take your chances against the requisite bandits and dangerous wildlife.  After nearly a month at sea, most opted enthusiastically for taking their chances.

Setting foot on land was such a colossal relief that Hawke nearly collapsed upon hands and knees at the dock.  But no sooner had they disembarked that Isabela was throwing her arm about Hawke's shoulders and thrusting her staff into her hands.

"You like playing bodyguard, right?" said Isabela sweetly.

Hawke felt herself beginning to smile at the notion.  "Ooh, what are we up against?" she wondered.  "Assassins?  Qunari outlaws?  Dwarven assassins?"

"Don't get ahead of yourself, sweetness," Isabela tapped her nose.  "Five minutes ago you looked like you could barely keep down your breakfast.  Anyway, these are garden-variety smugglers we're dealing with here, and the deal's already been made.  It's just nice to have a little backup."

"Count me in," said Hawke, flexing her fingers about her staff.

Isabela leaned into Hawke's shoulder.  "If you wanted to convince your girlfriend to brandish a sword, too, I wouldn't turn her away."

"The apostate and the pirate convince a sworn templar to aid them in the smuggling business?" Hawke nearly snorted at the image.  "Might be a bit too much to ask right off the bat."

Isabela rolled her eyes.  "I can never decide whether it's a tragedy or a mercy that you so vastly underestimate the power of your charms, Hawke."

Hawke laughed outright.  "Convincing Aveline to turn a blind eye and convincing Meredith are two entirely different things."

"Are they?" Isabela wondered mischievously.  "Personally I think they'd both be far more susceptible to a kiss from a pretty girl than either would ever admit."

"Oh, stop," Hawke shoved her lightly.

"Oh, but you'd know with Avvers, wouldn't you?" Isabela leaned in, delighted.  "What's Lady Man-Hands kiss like?  A stone wall?"

"That's..." Hawke looked back on her incredibly ill-advised pass at Aveline for the first time in years, with surprisingly little embarrassment "...not entirely off the mark, actually."

While they were busy armouring up (or rather, Hawke was--Isabela preferred to take her chances with only protective clothing to shield her), Meredith had taken it upon herself to lead the charge in bringing camping supplies ashore, shouldering what looked to be twice the burden anyone who followed her carried.  More than just Hawke and Isabela stopped what they were doing to admire her sheer strength as she walked past.  She ignored the eyes upon her, as though her mind were elsewhere entirely.

"If Aveline's a stone wall," Isabela nudged Hawke's shoulder, "that's the whole fucking fortress right there."

"Maybe I like foreboding architecture," Hawke retorted.

"Pfft," Isabela shoved her once more for good measure.  "You would."

* * *

With their business attended to, Hawke and Isabela returned to the campsite to share the spoils of their efforts.  If they were lucky, the generous helping of fish would hold them awhile, and the ale would encourage a bit more friendly chatter than Isabela gave them time for onboard.

Hawke was eager to discard the better part of her armour.  She didn't mind staying battle-ready day and night in Kirkwall--indeed, it was usually entirely necessary--but today it had all been for show, and the fresh sea air and the smell of fish and ale were calling to her.  She tossed her plating and gauntlets into a tent at random and sat to undo the plating on her shins.

"Hawke."

It seemed almost funny to feel a rush of nerves in response to the sound of Meredith's voice now, but Hawke's hands faltered nevertheless.  Hawke was reminded of the creeping dread she'd felt most of her life every time a templar so much as glanced at her, and then of the strange, dizzying sensation of walking amongst the templars of Kirkwall after the title Meredith had bestowed upon her had rendered her virtually untouchable.

Meredith gestured that Hawke should follow her.  Hawke did her level best not to scramble to her feet like an idiot.

The tide was high, but beneath the water Hawke could see that what passed for a beach along this coast was just an assortment of slightly smaller rocks.  A little down the way, she could see an abandoned ship that had crashed into the rocks long enough ago that it had begun to grow some very impressive moss.  Meredith led them along the shoreline such as it was, which was made up of great masses of old stone that had formed into uneven little steps over time.

She stopped in a little alcove and turned to offer Hawke her arm.  Hawke was reminded of the first time they'd met, the way Meredith had pulled her to her feet like she was nothing, the way she'd been awestruck and terrified all at once.  Both then and now, Hawke could not tear her eyes away.  Meredith studied her with the usual cool stoicism before she inclined her head in the direction they'd been heading, and Hawke caught sight of unnatural lightning.

"Oh!" Hawke exclaimed quietly, and grasped onto Meredith's arm with both hands now.

Not twenty paces from where they'd perched themselves, a dragon was beating its wings and clawing at something on the ground, calling down lightning to aid its efforts.  The something, obscured by the dragon's wings, made a terrible noise that Hawke felt she'd know anywhere, and then drove the dragon back by throwing a heavy boulder.  The dragon shrieked, and the form of the ogre was revealed.

"I am...given to understand that you are no stranger to such creatures," said Meredith, close enough to Hawke's ear that Hawke could feel the warmth of her breath.  "Though one always wonders how many of the tales spun about you are based in fact."

Hawke chuckled breathlessly.  "Based in fact?  Most of them.  Retaining any resemblance to the facts in which they were based?"  She shrugged.  "But we did run afoul of an ogre when we were fleeing Lothering.  And dragons are everywhere if you stumble around outside Kirkwall long enough."

She hadn't let go of Meredith's arm yet, and Meredith seemed at last to adjust to the contact.  She relaxed her captive arm and placed a hand lightly over one of Hawke's.  "I've never seen either before," she said, almost gently, like a confession.

"Clearly you just don't go to enough disreputable places," Hawke replied lightly.

Meredith let out a small huff of amusement.  "What an indictment of my character."

The dragon charged at the ogre once more, but the ogre already had another boulder at the ready, and this time its aim was true.  The dragon shrieked again and withdrew, cradling one of its claws a moment before it took off into the gathering storm above, raining down lightning as it went.  As though in response, the sky thundered, and rain began to pour down around them.

Hawke looked up into the sky and smiled.  Subconsciously, she squeezed Meredith's arm more tightly.

"I never thought I'd see a storm and call it beautiful," said Meredith quietly.

Hawke returned her attention to Meredith, whose steely eyes followed the path the dragon had taken.  There was the faintest curl about her lips that suggested a subtle smile, and just as Hawke's hands had not left Meredith's arm, so had Meredith's hand not left Hawke's.

* * *

Once they'd returned to the campsite and Hawke had deigned to release her vise grip upon Meredith's arm, Meredith ducked into the tent she'd chosen for herself to dry her hair and clean her armour.  She wasn't accustomed to frequent storms--in Kirkwall, despite close proximity to the sea, it rained maybe a few times per year at the most--but she could not pretend that the weather wasn't a welcome change.  The Storm Coast was more beautiful than she could ever have imagined.

It was strange not to be wearing the heavy plating of a templar.  Sometimes she felt as though she'd donned it thirty years prior and never taken it off since, and perhaps in a way that was true.  She couldn't remember the last time she'd taken a full day off, and the strange lightness she felt without its weight never ceased to unsettle her.  Now, polishing rain spots off of plating made for a simple hunter, she felt as though she might as well be a child again, barely strong enough to wield a sword.

There was the familiar hollowness, the thing that hungered and whispered and longed, but the hard work on the ship and the thrill of so many new circumstances made it relatively easy to ignore for the moment.  Since she'd taken up the rank of Knight-Commander, she'd taken it upon herself as a personal challenge to stretch her lyrium doses as far as they would go, but even so, she knew she had only a matter of time before the emptiness would threaten to consume her.

She'd imagined before she made the decision to leave Kirkwall that the Captain, who made very little pretense regarding her occupation, would be able to procure a supply for her, and though she'd initially recoiled at the thought, a more sensible inner voice had wondered in response whether remaining beholden to the Chantry for her lyrium were truly so very different.

Meredith combed her fingers through her hair and pulled it away from her face.  She had kept it covered longer than she'd borne the sun-shield, and this lightness, too, unnerved her.  She'd begun the practice as a troubled adolescent, horrified by the sudden attention of men and the supposed inevitability of such interactions.  She had vowed chastity easily, then, gladly taken up markedly modest dress in an effort to keep the eyes of men away from her.

After she'd become an initiate, the weight of a cowl upon her head and shoulders had been just one of a thousand grounding influences any templar might employ to keep the aching hollowness at bay.  She remembered those earliest days, when the lyrium had still been new in her veins, the way she felt as though she might come undone and fly apart whenever she removed her armour and cowl to sleep.

Now, she supposed her status and general demeanour protected her well enough from unwanted attention, and though the lightness unnerved her, she felt it a necessary challenge to endure, much like denying herself lyrium to strengthen her resolve.  As to the vows of chastity...well.  Those had gradually fallen by the wayside over the years, after Meredith had at last acknowledged a certain variety of attention she might find more palatable.

_Hands holding, reaching, grasping, warmth pressed to her side, gentle hum of magic, so controlled, so understated she hardly felt it, but the emptiness inside her hungered for it all the more, hungered to deny, to control, to possess, to..._

Meredith's fingers ghosted over the place where Hawke had grasped at her arm.  She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, took in the fresh sea air and relished the chill in her lungs.  She preferred not to dwell on such matters.  In all likelihood the thought would be immaterial even if circumstance hadn't rendered it moot.

Outside, some of the crew were gathered around a pot of boiling water, preparing the fish Hawke and Isabela had brought back with them from whatever dealings they'd wandered off to handle.  The two in question sat among a crowd, each with a mug of foaming ale in hand, Hawke with her arm slung about Isabela's shoulders.  Meredith felt her hands clench at her sides, felt something unfamiliar clench in her chest.

She would have turned on her heel and walked away entirely if the Captain hadn't caught sight of her and waved her over, would have obliged only out of grudging necessity if Hawke hadn't looked up to acknowledge her with unmistakable delight.

The clenching sensation in her chest only intensified, however, and Meredith frowned instinctively in response.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never in my life thought I'd be researching Cullen hahaha.

In the course of the past thirty days, Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford had learned through hard experience at least ten solid responses to long-standing questions regarding the...intensity...of the Knight-Commander's disposition.

At first he had taken the opportunity to attempt to handle matters in a manner more suited to his softer disposition.  Unlike many, Cullen didn't doubt the Knight-Commander's fitness, but she had very stringent ideas on how things ought to be done, and did not respond well to suggestions that favoured leniency.  There was much to aspire to in Kirkwall's Knight-Commander; yet in this regard, Cullen had hoped that he might be different.

For the first week or so, his appointment had seemed to go over surpassingly well.  His meetings with the First Enchanter and the Seneschal had been downright pleasant, hardly the grueling affairs Meredith seemed to consider them, and people had smiled at him in the streets when he passed.  It was an uncharitable thought, perhaps, but it was his newly-reinstated successor who put voice to what Cullen would not have admitted.

"It's like the whole damn city breathed a sigh of fucking relief, now the bitch is gone," said Samson with a tired smirk, dark circles around his eyes just now fading since his daily lyrium supply had been returned to him.

Cullen coughed uncomfortably, and neither confirmed nor denied.

A fortnight passed in relative peace before Cullen began to see the error of his ways; namely, that the First Enchanter and the Seneschal, observing his leniency, quickly began to push for more than it was within his power, or his expertise, to give.

At the Seneschal's request, he was obliged to meet with a handful of newly-interested candidates for Viscount and rally the templars behind the one he favoured, but he had absolutely no experience in such political plays, nor, frankly, did he have any interest in learning.  Long before he'd been transferred here, there were whispers that Meredith had personally led the effort that had ousted the previous viscount, and subsequently managed somehow to ensure Dumar's unequivocal support.  Cullen could claim no such prowess.  He could rally some templar support behind whomever he found most competent and hope for the best, but he shuddered to think what might befall the city, and himself, if he made an inauspicious decision in the absence of someone far more capable.

From the First Enchanter, he was obliged to loosen the harsh restrictions Kirkwall's Circle placed upon its mages, a request he was at first loath even to consider seriously.  He knew from personal experience that the Circle here was far stricter than most in Thedas—indeed, it was one of the reasons he had been transferred here.  In Kirkwall, all mages, regardless of status or behaviour, were forbidden from drinking alcohol, severely discouraged from romantic fraternization, obliged to adhere to a curfew if they were permitted to leave at all, and were not permitted to live outside the Gallows under any circumstances, none of which had been the case in the Fereldan Circle where Cullen had last served. 

The defiance of any of these restrictions was punishable by solitary confinement at the very least, and when brought to Meredith, was often far more severe.  More often than not, she could be persuaded to show mercy, but it wasn't a tactic Cullen personally employed often.  This was largely because, after the disaster that had befallen him in the Fereldan Circle, Cullen generally believed that, while harsh on the surface, the restrictions Meredith enforced were entirely warranted.  As a second, though perhaps equally prevalent thought, Cullen had no great wish that Meredith's ire might fall upon himself in a mage's stead.

When Cullen would not yield, the First Enchanter pressed harder, became more incensed, brought up the fact that few other Circles across Thedas were as strict as the Gallows.  When Cullen told the First Enchanter of his own experience in Fereldan, the First Enchanter fought back.  After several fruitless hours had passed in such a manner, Cullen abruptly ended the meeting and retired to Meredith's office to think.

Of course he couldn't understand.  He wasn't there, hadn't seen.  If he'd been there, he'd likely be dead.  It was only by the grace of the Hero of Fereldan, herself a former Circle mage, that any of them had gotten out alive.

Cullen squeezed his eyes closed and shook his head.  He tried not to dwell upon the thought of...that time.  Or of her.

He sat in the Knight-Commander's chair (though, now he thought of it, he wasn't certain he'd ever once seen her sitting in it, herself), and contemplated the comprehensive instructions and notes she had left for him in her absence, all penned so neatly they might as well have been printed.  What mattered now, in the present, was that although Cullen would never have doubted Meredith's fitness to her position, he felt he was beginning at last to understand her methods.

* * *

"I'm curious," said Isabela, by way of greeting.

Meredith looked up from the tea she'd been nursing so long it had gone cold.  She didn't much care for tea, but the drinking water the ship possessed was of such questionable veracity that she felt it prudent to boil it, regardless.

"I've crossed paths with a few templars in my time, most of them disgraced, mind you," Isabela continued, "but all of them were practically begging for lyrium within a fortnight.  Sometimes quite literally."

Meredith felt her brow furrow subtly, and took another long sip of her tea.  Before Isabela had brought it up, she'd been doing a masterful job of ignoring the urgent whispers at the back of her mind, but now they seemed infinitely louder and more important.

"Preparing the infusion is touted by the Order as a daily ritual," said Meredith quietly.  "However, the Order also espouses the virtues of control.  I find it difficult to reconcile a ritualistic obsession with control.  Since it has been within my power to do so, I have endeavoured to limit my infusions until they are truly necessary, and not merely comfortable."

"So," Isabela drawled as she approached, folding her hands behind her back and swaying her hips with a certain deliberation.  "You do need lyrium, then."

Meredith bristled, felt herself nearly shiver, and tightened her grip on her teacup.  _Yes, yes, yes_ , the false voices shrieked and pleaded in her ears, louder than anything in the corporeal world.  "To call upon the abilities I use as a templar, yes," she said evenly.  "To live?"  _Yes_.  "No."

Isabela chuckled.  It was a light, musical sound, but there was a cutting edge to it.  A whimsical thought crossed Meredith's mind briefly, regarding the ways people resembled the weapons they wielded.

"Ooh," Isabela crooned, "I see now why Hawke likes you so much.  All that _rippling_ control, practically trembling all over to pretend there's nothing you need."  She sauntered past where Meredith sat, and trailed her fingertips over Meredith's shoulder as she went.  Meredith struggled not to flinch at the contact.  "But everyone needs something, Meredith."

"Captain?" Meredith questioned her pointedly, hands still clasped around her teacup as the vial Isabela held in her free hand came into view.  It was opaque and unmarked, yet the very blood in Meredith's veins knew what it contained.

Isabela held the potion aloft before Meredith's eyes, and her hand did not leave Meredith's shoulder.  "Everyone needs something," she repeated, quietly, and close enough to Meredith's ear that she felt gooseflesh rising at the back of her neck.

"And what is it you need, Captain?" Meredith wondered icily.  "You must know how commonplace such a display seems to me.  I daresay I've borne this burden longer than you've been alive."

Isabela chuckled again, and her touch became feather-light once more as she withdrew.  "Nothing, at the moment," she said airily.  "But anyone as tightly-wound as you are is bound to break rather magnificently, don't you think?  Isn't it nice to have options?"

She left with a wink, of all things, the vial of lyrium still dangled carelessly over her shoulder, and Meredith was momentarily overcome by the screaming of the void inside her as the only thing that would soothe it was carried so lackadaisically out of her grasp.

She cradled her head in her hands, struggled to steady her breathing and ignore the throbbing in her temples.  _Go after her, throw yourself at her mercy, what have you to lose but your pride, just kill her, wrap your hands about her throat and end this charade, end this pain, end this ceaseless, clawing, nagging, gnawing hunger—_

 _Focus!_   "Focus," she told herself, in a voice that was cracked and broken and so much less convincing than the ones that wailed within her.  She realized vaguely that her hands were damp, that cold sweat beaded upon her forehead and tears welled at the corners of her eyes, and she wiped furiously at her face with her sleeve.

It had been...what...a little over a month, since they'd left Kirkwall.  Not even long enough for the last lyrium infusion she'd taken to leave her blood completely.  If she focused, if she breathed deeply, she could still feel it humming beneath her skin, could call upon it if the need arose—and _only_ if the need arose.

As it stood, the only mage on board was Hawke, and she possessed none of the wild, surging mana Meredith was accustomed to observing in apostates.  Half the mages in Kirkwall's Circle possessed no such control, their power sputtering anxiously whenever she passed them.  Indeed, when first she'd laid eyes on Hawke, she had second-guessed herself.  She was certain she had seen—certain she had felt the unnatural crackle of magic soaring through the air as she approached, but after the qunari mage had fallen to her blade, she'd felt...nothing.  Stillness.

Only when she'd offered Hawke her hand did the emptiness begin to whisper, only when she'd grasped it an instant too long did she feel the faint hum of mana somewhere beneath the flesh of Hawke's palm, hardly even enough to grasp at, should she need to dispel it.

Meredith drained the last of her tea, allowed herself a moment's indisposition in response to the bitterness of the dregs, and returned the cup to its haphazard chest of utensils.  She paced the lower deck restlessly, railed against a foregone conclusion for some unknowable stretch of time before she leaned heavily upon the wall and knocked lightly upon one of its unmarked doors.

No answer, of course.  Meredith ought to have seen reason, or at least seen some inner sense of propriety, but she felt keenly as though her formidable self-discipline had been used up entirely in the course of her previous interaction.  She pushed open the door with a grim sort of resolve, watched as the dim light from the sconce in the hallway fell across Hawke's face, hands clasped in her blanket and body curled up in fitful slumber.

Meredith sighed heavily and leaned against the doorframe, counted her breaths until she could feel it from across the room, that faint undercurrent of magic, so controlled even in sleep.

_So controlled, so quiet, so peaceful while she sleeps, but you know where they go when they dream, you know what evils plague them, you know, you know, and someone so carefully controlled is bound to break rather magnificently, don't you think?_

" _Leave me_ ," Meredith rasped, nearly doubled over from the force of her plea, clutching a hand to her forehead.

Hawke shifted in her sleep, and Meredith felt the faintest surge in the current of her mana, but in her current state, even the slightest change sent a wave of terrible energy coursing through her.  Hawke blinked a few times in the dim light as she pushed herself up onto one arm.

"Meredith?" she wondered drowsily.

Meredith swallowed, hard, and steadied herself against the doorframe until she could straighten her posture.  Inside, she was screaming—no, the false voices were screaming, and she was—but she would not give in, would not be weak, would not foist her burden upon a mage who had done nothing wrong, who had tried to, who had tried to—

"Forgive me," she breathed, with eyes closed and hands still clutching the doorframe, and before Hawke could awaken further, she removed herself from the room and closed the door.

* * *

Hawke wasn't sure whether she really found any further sleep before the third watchman came to wake her and take up occupation of the upper bunk.  She felt the dizzy hollowness of far too little rest, and visions from the Fade still lingered in her periphery, sharper than the darkness of the night into which she'd woken.

She'd woken up shivering, and she couldn't tell if it was really from the cold or from the strange sight she'd witnessed between dreams, but it turned out she'd bundled up perfectly for the weather, and the gentle rain that fell outside served to soothe her nerves considerably.

Hawke hadn't even the faintest idea what to make of what she was sure she'd seen the previous evening, or more likely an hour or two ago, and left alone with her thoughts, she had nothing better to do but to run it over and over again in her mind.  She'd heard Meredith's voice, pained, whispering something, and she'd woken to see Meredith lingering in the doorway, nearly doubled over, unmistakable even though she was little more than a bleary shadow, and then Meredith had said...

But for what?

The bizarreness of the encounter plagued her, especially after the uncommon pleasantness of their interactions on shore, and she found herself doing much more pacing than sitting and watching this morning.  Somehow, impossibly, time trudged ever forward, and the gentle rain began to dissipate as the sky lightened.

Hawke felt Meredith's presence before Meredith had even made any noise.  Most people, magical or not, had a little give or take to them—Hawke had learned that from her father, and it was the means by which she'd learned to tuck her own mana so carefully beneath her skin that anyone would be hard-pressed to sense it—but templars, and particularly Meredith, had none.  It was like reaching out around herself in every possible direction, and meeting neither push nor pull, nor even unyielding hardness, only...nothingness.

Hawke heard her inhale now, hesitantly, and she turned around to face her.  Meredith was stony-faced as ever, but Hawke could see a gathering storm in her eyes.  Hawke held up her hands in a show of surrender.  "I feel like you're going to apologize again," she began, attempting lightness.

Meredith said nothing.  Her brow furrowed subtly.

"When I am receiving an apology," Hawke continued, perhaps a bit too quickly under Meredith's uncertain gaze, "which is admittedly a rare occurrence, it is generally helpful to know the nature of the insult I have incurred."

Meredith's frown deepened, but her eyes were no longer quite affixed upon Hawke.  She turned away to take in the sea before she spoke.  "A moment of...disgraceful weakness," she said at last, low and harsh.  "My calling is a burden I bear alone.  That I should ever have even thought to share it with you is..."  She bowed her head.

Hawke felt the twisting sensation in her stomach ease at long last, and a certain lightness in her step as she approached.  There was something uniquely wonderful about finally catching a glimpse of understanding in one so determined to obscure herself.  "Meredith," she said, reaching out a hesitant hand, "are you apologizing because you wanted to talk to me about something that was troubling you in the middle of the night?"

Meredith did not respond, did not move when Hawke's hand found her shoulder.  Hawke almost laughed for how relieved she felt.  She doubted a laugh would be well-received, however, and did her best to swallow the impulse.

"Do you know how many times my idiot friends have come crashing into my house at some terrible hour in the last few months alone?  I don't mind it at all, Meredith, it's..." _nice to feel needed_ , she did not say.  Instead she scoffed lightheartedly.  "Shit, it's practically the only thing I'm good for, if you don't need anything killed at the moment."

At last Meredith regarded Hawke's hand upon her shoulder, with something that read as cool derision, but when Hawke made to remove it, she was quick to place her own hand atop it to hold it there.  Her grip was tight, and her hand was trembling.

Hawke came around to face her and dared her free hand upon Meredith's cheek, smoothing away the flaxen curls she hadn't yet tied back for the day's work.  Meredith caught this hand, too, and with the other found Hawke's face, her eyes suddenly alight with something Hawke couldn't hope to read.  Meredith's fingers curled into her hair, cradled the back of her head almost possessively.

Hawke struggled not to show how it affected her, but she'd never been very good at hiding such things.  The sharp intake of breath couldn't be taken back, nor could she resist drawing nearer for very much longer, dropping her hand to the sturdy line of Meredith's waist, now unshielded by heavy mail and plating.  She looked up to meet Meredith's eyes, to gauge her reaction, only to find that they were closed, and her lips were just slightly parted.

She'd been trying to coax something out of Meredith, she remembered belatedly, and though she rather doubted that whatever unspoken ghost of a thing that hung between them was troubling enough to her to find her twisting in agony at Hawke's doorway in the middle of the night, it occurred to her that she did not know that to be true.  Hawke had never paid more than grudging attention to the Chantry's teachings, but she knew well enough that the clergy's official stance on affections between two men or two women was rather different from how its practices tended to play out.

Meredith sighed deeply, and Hawke felt the control of the breath beneath her hand.  "Forgive me my weakness, Hawke," she breathed.  "It is my burden to bear, not yours."

Hawke ducked her head in an effort to catch Meredith's gaze, affected a lopsided smile as she smoothed Meredith's hair once more.  "I wish I could help," she said.

Meredith withdrew, and squeezed Hawke's shoulders lightly as she went, but she did seem a great deal calmer than when she'd appeared.  "You have," she said, with a small bow, like the one the Knight-Commander had once afforded her Champion.

* * *

"Come on, get to the good part!" someone shouted, loudly enough to draw Hawke from her reverie.

Isabela took a long and deliberate sip of her ale by way of response.  "All in due time, Amos. As I was saying, this girl keeps eyeing me across the room, looking like she'd like to murder me, so obviously I go over to her—" for effect, she leaned over to Hawke and slid a hand up her thigh.  "And I ask her, _very_ politely, if she has any taste for card games."

Hawke managed a weak grin, but in truth she was exhausted.  A part of her wanted to call it an early night—Isabela told the story of how she'd seduced the Hero of Fereldan something like once per season, at least—but another part of her was feeling rattled and lonely after her interaction with Meredith this morning.  She'd spent the evening clinging to the distant hope that perhaps Isabela might offer at least the understanding that came with familiarity, if nothing else.

"Absolutely no sense of humour," Isabela was saying, "but I had something she needed, you see."

"A warm bed?" Amos joked.

Isabela caught his eye with a sharp smile.  "Perseverance," she replied lightly.

It was unfailingly funny hearing Isabela describe the Hero of Fereldan, who was actually a distant cousin of some branch of the Amells Hawke had never met, as a stuffy ex-Circle mage  in sore need of a good time, but tonight, mirth rang flat and distant, and Hawke ended up abandoning her hope for true companionship in favour of her own decidedly cold, hard, unyielding bed.

Before she'd even made it to her room, though, she heard footsteps behind her.  "All right, Broody?" Isabela called sweetly.  "Usually you love the Hero of Fereldan story.  Especially when I add the bit about the Chantry sister."

Hawke felt a tired chuckle escape her lungs.  "None shall ever know the truth of that fateful meeting, I fear," she said.  "I'm fine, just...tired.  Weird night.  Weird morning."

Isabela approached, with the sway to her hips that said she was probably up to something, or more likely between three and seven somethings.  "Girl troubles?"

Hawke leaned heavily upon the wall, raised her eyes to the ceiling.  "Sort of.  I guess.  I don't know.  Did she seem strange to you?"

Isabela shrugged.  "My guess was lyrium withdrawals.  Never seen a templar go so long without it."

"Lyrium...withdrawals?" Hawke echoed, frowning.

Isabela quirked one eyebrow.  "You've never heard of that?" she scoffed.  "Thought that was common knowledge.  Yeah, they do some weird ritualistic shit with it so they can rip the magic out of people or whatever, then if they stop taking it—" she twirled a finger at her temple.  "Shit, Hawke, haven't you ever worked with lyrium smugglers?"

Hawke waved a hand dismissively, even as her mind was reeling.  "I've never troubled myself much with the why and wherefore," she said.  "Templars need lyrium, sure, that makes sense, but I didn't..." she waved her hand again "...you know...make the connection."  Templars needed lyrium and Meredith was a templar, so she...

Hawke realized suddenly how easy it was to forget who they'd been before, or perhaps, how desperately she wanted to.

Isabela had drawn closer in her inattention, and her arms were sliding over Hawke's shoulders.  She was warm, and her scent was familiar—some dreadful perfume mixed with salty sea air.  "You know," said Isabela, low and sweet, "if you've had a long day, I can assure you the Captain's quarters would be very welcoming."

"I..." Hawke's hands found Isabela's waist, softer, yielding to the touch, and took a moment to wonder whether this was what she'd been courting in the way of comfort.  Her mind offered her little insight into her own actions, however, and this, more than the ache of loneliness or the longing for an entirely different sort of touch, was what stayed her.  "Thanks for the offer," she said at last.  "But honestly I think I'm too tired to be any fun at all."

Isabela rolled her eyes and planted a kiss upon Hawke's nose before she withdrew.  "Rest up, then," she said with a wicked smile.  "We'll be visiting my old stomping grounds soon enough, after all."

The smile that answered felt warm and real, and genuine enough to soothe many of the day's injuries.  "Maker preserve us all," she said lightly, and laughed when Isabela responded with an obscene hand gesture thrown over her shoulder.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, happy one year anniversary to the last time I updated this thing! Thank you so much for your kind words and for sticking with me! [Also there is ART for this story!!!!!](https://papersketch.tumblr.com/post/165988886246/hawke-ducked-her-head-in-an-effort-to-catch)

For someone who grew up in a small, quiet town, Hawke had learned to find tremendous comfort in the bustle of a big city.  Kirkwall was huge, and still it was heinously overcrowded.  Though the old Amell estate in Hightown made for a decidedly calmer atmosphere than in other parts of the city, it seldom fell truly silent—one could still find the sounds of life at nearly any hour.

It was an odd notion, but Hawke was certain she could feel the next port approaching long before they were close enough to truly make anything out.  Perhaps it was all the people—the ebb and flow of human energy, as it were—or perhaps she was just seasick and desperate for the next shore.

She wouldn't be the only one.  Many of Isabela's crew were Denerim-born and anxious to see it again now that the Blight had ended.  In the evenings they began to speak wistfully of their favourite haunts, their old flames, and their personal thoughts on the political crisis that had arisen after King Cailan had fallen in battle at Ostagar.

Though Hawke was Fereldan, herself, and though her late brother had fought in the now-infamous Battle of Ostagar, about which he had expressed many strong and ill-conceived opinions, Hawke had always tried very hard to keep her head out of politics, a position which had become increasingly difficult as she gained renown in Kirkwall.

"Oh, come on, Hawke," Isabela prodded one evening.  "You must have had some opinion."

Hawke threw back her head and groaned melodramatically.  "Bor-ing!"

"You're related to the Hero of Ferelden!" Isabela insisted.  "Wouldn't you have liked for her to take the throne?"

Hawke scoffed, but not without humour.  "Why?  I never met her.  And my sources tell me she was a snob."

Isabela awarded her a rogueish smirk.  "First impressions can be deceiving."

"And anyway," Hawke continued, "it would never have happened.  She was a mage, and I doubt very much that either Anora or old what's-his-face would have risked the downfall of civilization as we know it over something so very avoidable."

Isabela sighed.  "Absolutely no imagination.  Suppose they were in love!"

Hawke turned upon Isabela a look of the utmost incredulity.  "What?"

"Suppose," Isabela continued, "that the disenfranchised Prince Alistair—or 'old what's-his-face' as you have christened him—or Queen Anora, if you prefer, were so in love with your late cousin that they defied all law and precedent to name her Queen-consort!"  She punctuated her proposition with a sweeping hand gesture.

Laughter came with a faint ache Hawke could not quite name, and she shoved Isabela lightly.  "What a ridiculous notion!" she said.  "I never took you for a romantic."

"It's hardly impossible!" Isabela replied.  "The tragically heroic sort always attracts unexpected admirers.  I mean, look at you, for example.  Half of Kirkwall is at least a little infatuated with its Champion!"

"Don't be stupid!" Hawke scrunched up her face.  "And _please_ don't refer to me as tragically heroic—sounds very....death-y.  Anyway, haven't we left all that behind for the time being?"

Isabela's smile faltered slightly, and she turned her attention to her drink.  The room was far from quiet—while some of her crew were listening intently to their conversation, others were loudly espousing the virtues and flaws of the political candidates from nigh on ten years prior—but Isabela was the sort of person whose general demeanour could brighten or darken an entire room all at once, and Hawke got the sense that it was her own fault long before Isabela put voice to her thoughts.

"You know," said Isabela quietly, "I credit you with teaching me that you can't just...run away, forever."  She looked up, more somber and more sincere than Hawke had ever seen her.  "Things catch up with you," she said.  "I think you know that."

"This," Hawke leaned in, "is why I do not discuss politics."

For an instant Hawke was certain she'd made things worse, but Isabela cracked a smile at last, and as she leaned in to plant a kiss upon the tip of Hawke's nose, Hawke felt the warmth return to the room.

* * *

Denerim came into view at first light.  Hawke could make out the outlines of fishing boats, the twinkle of lights in a few scattered windows across the skyline.  She remembered the tentative peace of the mornings in Kirkwall that came after the most terrible nights, the sleepy gait of merchants and fishermen who had risen just before dawn, and the distant toll of the Chantry bells across the water.  She remembered a verse from the Chant, tucked away in her memory even after a decade of inattention:

"The deep dark before dawn's first light seems eternal," Meredith's voice over her shoulder caught Hawke off her guard, and she turned, perhaps too sharply.  Meredith's attention was captivated by the outline of the approaching city.  "But know that the sun always rises," she finished, quietly.

"You read my mind," said Hawke.

Meredith regarded her with muted curiosity.  The grey light of morning caught on her flaxen hair, and Hawke was reminded of something someone said to her recently, something she'd written off as lyrium-addled nonsense: _she glittered like the sun_.

"Did I?" Meredith wondered.  "I wouldn't have thought you held much regard for the Chantry's teachings."

"I don't," Hawke conceded amiably, for she had found Meredith far more amenable to beliefs that countered her own when they were presented without vitriol, "but bits of the Chant are pretty."

Meredith's only response was an unreadable "Hm," before she returned her attention to the approaching skyline.  "Have you been to Denerim?"

"No," said Hawke, more than a little relieved for the change of topic.  "Not that I remember, anyway.  I'm told we visited a great many places in my early years."

Meredith considered this in silence for a moment.  "Because you were in hiding," she guessed.

Hawke turned her attention upward, and tried to focus on counting the stars she could still see.  "I was never certain how much of that you knew already," she confessed.  "Apparently it was a tremendous scandal, my mother leaving behind her noble family for a common apostate, and a Fereldan, of all things!"

She sighed, unamused by her own half-hearted attempt at humour.  "But she loved him, I guess.  And I'm sure in a sense it was exciting, visiting all those places, before the monotony of married life washed over her."

Meredith let out a small huff at this.  "I shouldn't be surprised that the notions of love and marriage would also warrant your derision."

Hawke dared a sidelong smile.  "Oh?  And what of you, Knight-Commander?  Am I to learn this sevenday that all of my trusted companions are secretly hopeless romantics?"

Meredith's brow furrows subtly.  "To what is that a reference?"

Hawke waves a hand dismissively.  "Oh, yesterday evening, Isabela spun me some mad tale about the King or Queen of Ferelden forsaking the time-honoured hatred for mages with the intention of marrying the Hero of Ferelden for love."

To Hawke's great chagrin, Meredith inclined her head thoughtfully.  "And this is so unlikely?  Surely you know nobles have indulged far stupider flights of fancy than that.  I expect marrying the Hero of Ferelden and raising her up as a queen would have been better-met than you imagine, had she survived."

" _Anyway_ ," Hawke drawled pointedly, "you didn't answer my question."

Meredith scoffed.  "And what was that?  My opinion on love and marriage?"

"I'd just like to know how much of a hypocrite you are for scoffing at my distaste for the stuff," Hawke replied airily.

Meredith heaved a deep sigh, and she leaned on the railing in silence for a long moment before she spoke.  "By the time I was old enough to...imagine such things, they seemed...if not impossible, then certainly ill-advised, for me."

It was a curious thing for a cynic such as Hawke, who had spent the better part of her life thus far viewing love as an occasional and most unfortunate consequence of too much sex with the same person, to wish suddenly and intensely that she knew how to prove Meredith wrong.

Instead, she said, as gently as she could, "You...mentioned you joined the Templar order at a young age."

"Yes," Meredith nodded slowly.  "I bore witness to an atrocity when I was very young.  A...a mage...was possessed by a demon, and slaughtered my family and dozens more.  The Knight-Captain stayed with me while I was...in shock, I suppose, and I told him I wanted to become a Templar."

"I'm so sorry," said Hawke, little more than a whisper, for she could think of nothing else to say.  "How old were you?"

Hawke could see Meredith swallow hard, could see the way her eyes shone as she blinked away the beginnings of tears.  "Six?  Maybe seven.  I hardly remember."

"That's...that's terrible.  How did you survive?" Hawke wondered aloud without meaning to.

Meredith's brow furrowed, and Hawke was sure her lower lip trembled, just for a moment.  "I don't know," she said.  "Seventy people dead, and only I walked away unscathed.  Sometimes I wonder if Amelia was still...in there, somewhere."

"You knew her?  The mage?"

A tear fell from Meredith's eye at last, shimmering with the grey light of morning against her cheek. Meredith paid it no mind.  "She was my sister."

Hawke's first impulse was to reach out.  Meredith's hand rested within reach upon the railing, knuckles white with tension, but just before she made contact, Hawke hesitated.  Meredith could feel Hawke's magic—she had been the only person Hawke had ever met who could tell instantly.  Would the touch of a mage be welcome in light of what Meredith had just told her?  Would it only serve as a reminder of what a mage could do, the tragedy a mage—whom she had known and surely loved as Hawke had adored her own siblings—had still wrought upon her home and family?

Hawke curled her fingers, and she grazed Meredith's hand with just the tips of her nails.  Meredith's eyes snapped downward to consider the contact, and Hawke very nearly withdrew on instinct, but words would be woefully insufficient, and perhaps—

As though time had slowed, Meredith uncurled her fingers one by one from the railing.  She turned her hand over.  Hawke looked up, stunned, but Meredith's expression had gone stony, and her attention was steadfastly affixed to her open palm and Hawke's hand hovering above it.

Hawke took her hand, warm and rough and pleasantly callused, and although she heard Meredith take in a quiet, shuddering breath, she also felt keenly that a fraction of the tension that hung between them had been dispelled.

* * *

Though she would not say so unless provoked, Meredith was somewhat disappointed to observe that Denerim, apart from its inferior outer defenses, was not so different from Kirkwall.  She wasn't certain what she had expected—something quite simply more foreign to her sensibilities, perhaps—but at least the weather was appropriately unfamiliar—grey and just faintly rainy, but without the stifling downpour that would muddy the streets and soak through their clothes.

As they prepared to dock, Isabela informed them that although they were free to revisit the art of camping, there was always plenty of room in Denerim haunts of a certain reputation, with her own preference towards a place called The Pearl.  Though the reactions of Isabela's Denerim-born crew provided sufficient indication of what sort of an establishment might bear that name, Meredith was not eager to abandon the company of both Hawke and Isabela, and so when the time came to part ways for the better part of the day, Meredith fell into step with the two of them.

"Oh, I do hope some of my old friends are still around," Isabela was saying.  "But Sanga has always been good for a laugh and a drink, and the spare rooms are to die for!  Anyway, once we've dropped our things, Hawke and I will be returning to the docks to go about our business, but if you'd care to join us, Meredith, I'd be delighted to have a big, strong warrior on my team."

As loath as Meredith was to be left to her own devices in what was almost certainly a thin guise for a high-end brothel, she was even less inclined to have any direct connection to whatever Isabela traded in, not least because there was a good chance she knew very well what it included.

"I suspect you would prefer the specifics of your business ventures remain unknown to me, Captain," she said lightly.

"Suit yourself," Isabela shrugged, then wrapped an arm suggestively around Hawke.  "We'll just have to have all the fun without you."

"So you shall," Meredith replied thinly.

Brothels made Meredith's skin crawl.  She hadn't been inside one since she endeavoured to break her Templars of the habit early in her reign as Knight-Commander.  Though storming the Blooming Rose had been quite effective in lessening Templar patronage to the place, it had also been deeply unpleasant for her, personally. 

Still, the Pearl was clean enough, and Isabela's jovial friendliness bizarrely catching, and when Sanga, the proprietor, told them about the spare rooms she had available, Hawke offered to share with Meredith without prompting, which came as a tremendous relief in many respects: first, that Meredith need not share such a small and foreign space with anyone less familiar to her, and second, that Hawke would evidently not be partaking in whatever debauchery Isabela surely had planned for the evening.

"Maker," Hawke remarked once they had entered their room.  "Isabela hasn't shut up about this place since we left.  I do hope the ale is as good as she says, and it's not just the company she's been missing."

"Hm," said Meredith by way of response.  "One wonders why she would find cause to frequent such places.  I doubt she faces any difficulty satisfying her needs in the usual way."

"Does the obedient sailor carry a torch for her captain?" Hawke teased her, and it was the delight in Hawke's voice more than the question that irked Meredith.

"Hardly," she scoffed.  "It was a practical question."

"Honestly?" Hawke shrugged.  "Sometimes I think half of what she says and does is just to get a reaction out of people.  Ooh, look!"

Hawke retrieved from a small arrangement of unfamiliar items on the bedside table an ordinary stone, and thrust it exuberantly in Meredith's direction.  Meredith inspected the stone more closely, looking for anything that might explain Hawke's reaction, and found only some etchings that could well be nothing more than the natural wear and tear of the elements.  Meredith regarded Hawke skeptically.

"Oh!  I was sure you'd have seen something like this before," said Hawke.  She gestured to the etchings, "See this?  It's a rune of warmth—or at least, I assume it is.  Better check before I toss it in the bath.  Sanga is known for being a bit tricky."

"Tricky?" Meredith echoed.

Hawke tossed the runestone idly between her hands.  "Isabela told me that sometimes when customers didn't word their requests carefully, Sanga would give them a nasty surprise.  Once, a man asked her what service she would provide for someone who had been a very bad boy, and she had two girls escort him to an actual Chantry service!"

Against both her will and better judgement, Meredith found herself struggling not to smile.

"Anyway, if you decide to give it a go while I'm gone, just—test the water first.  Oh, but these things feel _divine_ when they work properly."  Hawke replaced the runestone on the bedside table and took up her staff.  "Is there anything you need?"

Meredith, who had not quite managed to move from the end of the bed she had claimed all the while Hawke was busy bustling about the room, very nearly startled at the sheer strangeness of such a question.  "If I need anything," she said, more sharply than she intended, "I am perfectly capable of acquiring it, myself."

She regretted her tone immediately.  Hawke's cheerful demeanour suddenly faltered, and she gazed at Meredith as though just remembering the vastness of the world that separated them.

"Of course," said Hawke, uncharacteristically subdued.  "I didn't mean to imply otherwise."

Meredith felt compelled to reach out, to beg forgiveness, to thank her for the kindness of the thought, and to explain that no one apart from Hawke had ever, ever asked Meredith Stannard if there was anything she needed with any genuine intent, but long before she could contend with so foreign an impulse, Hawke was gone, and the room was unbearably silent.

* * *

It had been many years since Meredith had found herself with any significant amount of free time, not to mention the anonymity to spend it as she pleased.  There was something delightfully soothing about strolling through the Denerim market district, unarmed and unaccompanied, and without the feeling of a thousand eyes upon her.

Meredith was not sentimental by nature, and perhaps as a result of being raised in the Chantry from such a young age, held little affinity for material things, but she could not shake from the forefront of her mind the memory of a snowglobe tied with a red ribbon upon her desk, a gift that had shaken her to the core based on almost nothing, that Meredith had mentioned in passing that she had never seen snow.

She walked through little shops filled with fine clothes and pretty trinkets to match them, but she rather doubted that Hawke cared for such things.  She examined assortments of beautifully-crafted daggers, for she knew Hawke kept one on her person as an alternative line of defense, but Meredith was exceptionally trained in swords and shields and denying magic, not in daggers.  She would not know what marked a good dagger from one that was merely aesthetically appealing, and the mere idea of making such an error filled her with tremendous embarrassment.

Perhaps, she could not help but think, because Isabela would know better than she.

There was a stand on the other side of the main square which featured a glittering display of magical items, but Meredith was hesitant even to look upon it overlong.  My, but wouldn't that be a cruel irony, when at last the infamous apostate fell to the wiles of a demon and wrought havoc upon the Free Marches, and who had personally sought to augment the mage's power out of a misguided sense of camaraderie but the Knight-Commander, herself?

Putting that aside, a stand which sold magical items might also deal in lyrium, and Meredith had felt unfailingly steady in recent days, barring the night Isabela had provoked her.  The false whispers were unusually quiet, laughably easy to drown out now with the bustle of the city around her, and Meredith was not eager to return to the state of desperation she knew must find her sooner or later. 

She hadn't gone so long without an infusion since her initiation into the Templar order nearly thirty years prior, but she had seen what could happen, to Templars who were disgraced and to those who served faithfully all their lives.  Ser Wentworth, who had all but raised her since she had lost her family, didn't even remember her name in the end.

Then again, was it any better to stand paralyzed by fear where there was no threat in sight?  Was it better to quake in her boots and to wonder what might happen the next time she could sense the sweet song of lyrium, rather than to face the question now, when she was sane and well-rested, and when she had a task to complete, no matter how relatively trivial?

Meredith nodded firmly to herself, and she approached the vendor, a dwarf with dark hair and bright green shoes.

"Wouldn't have clocked you for a mage," said the dwarf pleasantly.

"Not I," said Meredith.  "I'm looking for a gift."

"Right," the dwarf drawled, and winked at her.  Meredith frowned instinctively.  "You're not Fereldan, I take it?"  He squinted.  "Free Marcher, maybe?  Anyway, since the Hero of Ferelden ended the Blight, mages have a lot more freedom around here.  No need to be sneaky about it."

"I...see," said Meredith thinly.  "Nevertheless, I _am_ looking for a gift, and truthfully, I know little of magical items such as these."

"Well then!" cried the dwarf, with a sweeping gesture so exuberant Meredith nearly flinched.  "Perhaps you'd like to have a look at my fine selection of amulets?  I've got at least one for each type of elemental magic—to augment or to guard against—and a few little novelties with pretty names.  Valor, Unquenchable Flame, Mercy's Teardrop, you get the idea—all with their own unique magical advantages."

"Thank you," Meredith murmured, though her attention was already divided.  The array of amulets glittered even in the shade, their colours surged and shifted with no force to move them, and they _sang_ —not dark and cruel like the false voices or wild and aching like a vial of lyrium just out of her grasp, but soft and sweet, like—

Like pressing her forehead against Hawke's, or holding her hand in the first light of morning, feeling the subtle hum of magic tucked carefully beneath her skin, steady, soothing.

Meredith traced her fingers idly across the letters of the amulets' descriptions.  Nature magic, fire magic, spirit magic—in this, too, she was woefully out of her element.  Her expertise was in denying magic of all sorts, and Hawke was so cautious that Meredith did not even know in what sorts of magic Hawke excelled.

Meredith paused at the description of an amulet with a silver chain and a stone that shone bright blue.  The amulet was called Vigilance, and its purpose was to augment stamina on the battlefield and willpower against 'battles more personal'.  Meredith picked it up without thinking, hissed as a shudder coursed through her when she felt a surge like lyrium just shy of her skin.

"A lovely piece, if I do say so," the merchant remarked, oblivious.  "Some people say they can feel it working just by holding it in their hands—ha!  And so pretty, too.  I daresay it'd be extra-perfect if you've got a blue-eyed sweetheart in mind."

Meredith uncurled her fingers slowly, focused on the slowness of her movements and not the surging lyrium in her palm, and nodded her assent.  "Yes," she said quietly.  "Yes, I think this will do nicely."


End file.
